23
IT TASTES BETTER THAN IT LOOKS
RAYA
I can’t stop suckingdeep lungfuls of air in through my nose. Asher’s place smells amazing. Woodsy, cedar and smoke, bergamot and clean linens. Like him, but more. Not to mention how cute the outside is with a large front window and bright blue door. He has a stoop, for crying out loud, and a stars-damned flower box.
As we wander back through the living area, Asher guides me to the kitchen. Milton trails after us, his tail twitching as he eyes Asher, and I grin. I love cats, and Milton is gorgeous with his sleek black fur and pale green eyes. He almost looks like a tiny version of Jo’s panther form.
“You hungry?” Asher asks, and I shrug.
“I could eat.” While not a lie, it also doesn’t convey how ravenous I am. I only nibbled on my lunch today, my stomach a knot of nerves mixed with excited butterflies over our date tonight.
Unfortunately, said stomach decides to tattle on me with a loud gurgle. Ash raises an eyebrow, and even as I feel my cheeks heat I narrow my eyes, daring him to comment.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he turns to the fridge and opens it, then starts pulling out ingredients. Flour, sugar, a bottle of pure maple syrup, baking powder, vanilla extract, an eighteen-count carton of eggs, five lemons, turkey bacon, two containers of raspberries, a bag of chocolate chips, salt, a carton of oat milk, a box of stick butter, and a bottle of sparkling apple juice. All emerge with Asher placing each on the counter as he slowly empties what is surely his entire fridge.
“What… Why do you have everything in the fridge?” I say, tilting my head in what I know is a feline gesture, as I grew up surrounded by it.
Asher looks abashed for a moment, before asking what I mean.
“You just pulled flour, sugar, the chocolate chips… I mean, all of those things, out of the fridge.”
He looks between me and the pile of groceries, then picks up the bag of chocolate chips and simply holds it. It looks smaller than normal in his large hand.
“I’m guessing this doesn’t belong in the fridge?” he finally says, his tone implying this is a question rather than a statement.
“No,” I chuckle, “chocolate chips can go in the cupboard. Same with all the other dry ingredients.”
“Right. Well, as you may have guessed, I’m new to this whole food thing.”
“That’s okay. Here, let me help.” I step forward with my hand out, intending to wash the lemons, when he steps directly in front of me.
Asher’s massive body physically blocks me from the food and I take an unsteady step back to catch my balance.
“Nope. I’m doing this," he says, “I want to cook for you.”
I hold my hands up and back away.
“Okay, okay.” I’m smiling as I say it, loving that he’s sointent on taking care of me, even if he does put flour in the fridge. “No problem, tough guy.”
He narrows his eyes, correctly suspecting that I’m teasing him, so I offer my most blinding smile in return. It seems to work; he turns back to the food and starts sorting things, muttering under his breath.
I could swear I see the tips of his ears turn a little pink.
I can barely make out his lips moving, though I can’t hear what he’s saying. I glance at Milton, but he flicks his tail as his eyes track Asher’s hands, not that he could actually communicate with me, but I was kind of hoping for something. Asher washes the lemons, using much more dish soap than necessary, but I hold my tongue, pushing it into my cheek to avoid giving away my amusement.
“So what are we having anyway?” I ask as he rinses the raspberries.
“Pancakes.” Asher’s voice is gruff, and he drags a hand through his hair, mussing it in the most enticing way as he surveys the pile of ingredients in front of him. “And such.”
“Uh huh, okay well, I can help.” I try to rescue him and move to grab a large mixing bowl on the counter behind him when he intercepts me again.
“Nuh uh, little shifter,” he growls, “I told you, I’m doing this.”
With that, his hands circle my hips and Asher lifts me off my feet. I don’t have time to do more than blink before he drops me onto the counter on the other side of the sink—where I can’t reach any of the food or cooking utensils. I cross my arms over my chest, sticking my bottom lip out in an effort to cover my true heated reaction to that outrageous display of manhandling.
